


Sucker's Prayer

by Thornofthelily



Series: Top Goro Week 2021 [4]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, BDSM, BDSM Gone Wrong, Bottom!Akira, Consensual Non-Consent, Cunnilingus, Degrading/Slut Shaming Language, Disconnect from reality, Dissociation, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Genital Stomping, Gunplay, Handcuffs, M/M, Miscommunication, Needles, Panic Attacks, Post canon, Roleplay, Rough handling, Top!Goro, Trans akira, Trauma, VERY BAD kink negotiation, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Whump, dom!Goro, hurt/little comfort, interrogation room, major top drop, mentions of nausea/vomitting, minimal aftercare, spitting, sub!Akira, things get way over their heads and they don’t talk about their problems like adults, top goro week 2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornofthelily/pseuds/Thornofthelily
Summary: Goro hasn’t been with Akira long enough to see how he acts towards the end of November. So he doesn’t think twice when Akira books their hotel room for 11/20.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: Top Goro Week 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2125152
Comments: 6
Kudos: 65
Collections: TopGoroWeek #1 2021





	Sucker's Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song by The Decemberists: Sucker’s Prayer  
> Top Goro Week Day 4: Interrogation room (and Hate Sex if you squint)
> 
> Oh boy oh boy, PLEASE check the tags before reading this. This fic contains basically every red flag and bad thing you could ever do for a BDSM scene, with lots of emotional fallout, poor communication, and little consideration for each other. Please let me know if I missed a tag.  
> Also, part of the dialog and scene towards the end written by my friend Guroboy! Thank you so much for letting me borrow your brain and helping me make this even more fucked up!

Akira always pushes Goro up to and past his limits. That’s something a rival just does. Challenges you, encourages you, infuriates you, helps you see the boundaries you assumed were impassable by standing just beyond them, looking at you with an infuriating smirk, and you cross that line just so you can kiss that stupid look right off his face.

… well, that’s Goro’s experience with a rival, anyway.

So Goro’s not too surprised when, out of the blue, Akira curls up against him in bed, gray eyes glinting up at him mischievously, and says, “Have you ever thought about replaying that time in the interrogation room?”

Goro takes a deep breath, moves his textbook off his lap – Akira had already broken his line of sight to the words, as much a cat as Morgana, though they would both deny it. Truthfully, he hadn’t. In fact, he’d spent years reconciling his own mysterious survival and his feelings for Akira between himself and his therapist, long before he ever reconnected with Akira. He felt it important to decide between his feelings of affection and his desire to murder him before he would allow himself to occupy the same prefecture as Akira. For the last six months or so, they’d been making it work, and Goro hadn’t once thought of murder.

“I try not to think about it, generally,” Goro evades. Akira raises an eyebrow at him.

“Oh really? You know, I never got to see you in there.” He trails the pads of his fingertips down the side of Goro’s jaw, down his throat to his collarbone, touching him the exact way he knows shuts Goro’s brain off. “I think about it.” He’s lowering his voice now, and Goro knows he’s being seduced. With anyone else, he’d either pounce them and give them what they wanted, or find a way to drive them away. But Akira is his rival first, his boyfriend second. The nature of rivals is to push each other, past the point of comfort, past the limits of respectability, and Akira always had to keep _pushing._

“There wasn’t much to see. It wasn’t even you.”

“Oh yeah?” That catty tone proves he’d played right in Akira’s hands, despite his efforts to evade the trap. Akira sits up, shifts, and now he’s straddling Goro’s lap. “Do you wish it was?”

Goro’s hands convulse into fists before he relaxes them, fighting down the quiet flutter of instinctive panic the memories bring. He’d gotten better at swallowing them down, not letting them show on his face, but he still needed to ground himself. He looks at his bed, the discarded textbook, Akira, the desk where he should have been doing his homework, and the bag of overnight clothes Akira brings when he stays the night at his place. He feels the sheets, Akira’s warmth, the cool of the air conditioning, his heart pounding against his chest. He hears his heart, too, and Akira’s, the whispering of his breathing. He smells the familiar clean of his room, and the lingering scent of his soap on Akira’s skin. Tastes the bitterness in his mouth.

Deep breaths. He’s fine. It’s more a habit now when he feels the anxieties threatening to wrest control of his mind from him. Helps distract him. With the initial revulsion passing, he admits there’s a certain… appeal. They’d tried some intense role-playing before (learning how, even in the bedroom, Akira likes to challenge, likes to push, likes to work Goro up just to see him brought low and give in, while Akira wrings pleasure from the collapsing of each and every wall around his heart).

Goro’s not opposed to the idea in principle. It could be kind of hot, Akira playing up the helpless angle, Goro revisiting that dark time with more control, more focus, more emotional maturity. With this new label of _boyfriend_ over the whole scene, too, it changes Goro’s perspective. He doesn’t hold loathing or envy for Akira anymore. Instead of vindictive hatred at imagining Akira tied up and helpless for him, Goro can envision the giddy rush of excitement that might bring.

“Hmm,” Goro ponders, letting his hand skim up the outside of Akira’s bare arm. Watches him lean into it. “Suppose I am curious. What would we do with that?”

Akira’s grin splits his face. Instead of answering, he leans in and catches Goro’s mouth with his teeth.

* * *

They don’t talk about it more that night. Goro wonders if Akira forgot about it, only asked on a whim, a prelude to their usual fooling around. But Akira brings it up again on their next date, and the next. Each time, an instinctive kick of nausea nearly double him over, but it’s less each time. Maybe Akira is giving him a kind of exposure therapy, warming him to the idea. And it’s working. They’re listening to the singer at Jazz Jinn when Akira leans in to him, his body a scalding tight line at his side, breath tingling in the shell of his ear: “You’ll have me all to yourself. Imagine it. I’m helpless, at your mercy. You caught me, outsmarted me. I’m all tied up and vulnerable, and all for you.”

Goro shifts his legs to ease the sudden hardness in his pants.

“You’re there to catch the wicked leader of the Phantom Thieves. Maybe you do a little interrogation of your own.” Akira’s hand creeps dangerously close to his lap, and he swats his wrist. Not in public. Especially not at Jazz Jinn. That’s a rule Akira loves trying to break. Akira chuckles and the sound shoots right to his dick. “Do you remember how I looked?”

This time, Goro’s chest barely constricts at all, and his heart skips erratically but that could have been from the arousal. “It wasn’t you,” he always reminds himself.

Akira huffs in frustration. “Yes, well how did _he_ look?”

The shift in pronouns helps. It wasn’t Akira. Just an illusion. Like a bad dream. “Bruised. Hurt. Distant, like he wasn’t in his own head. Handcuffed and limp.”

Akira scoots his chair closer so he can drape his arm across Goro’s shoulders, resting his head against his neck. “Was it hot? Did it turn you on?” He whispers dangerously.

 _No. It wasn’t you. No, the thought of doing that to you scares me._ But he knows what answer Akira wants, what answer will keep the game going. “You always turn me on.”

Akira swings the handcuffs around one finger, grinning smugly. “Look what I got from Makoto.”

Goro had barely even walked Leblanc’s attic when Akira reached under the bed and pulled them out. The way the heavy metal clinks as it rotates lazily in the air, weighty and thick, Goro can’t help but wonder. “Why would Niijima-san have such high quality replica handcuffs?”

“That’s because they’re real,” the little shit smarms. Goro runs a hand through his hair and breathes out in a huff.

“Akira,” he sighs in frustration. “Does she know what you plan on using these for? No, does she even know you _have_ them?”

“What, it’s _one pair,_ she has plenty. She won’t even notice.” The sly thief slides off his bed, moving with feline grace, strutting towards Goro proudly like he just caught a particularly juicy bird between his fangs. “I thought we could try them out. You know. For the scene.” But Goro refuses be swayed this time.

“Akira.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Real handcuffs, are you kidding me? And stealing them from an _officer?_ I know she is your friend, but that is…” He plucks the cuffs deftly from Akira’s grip. “Honestly. We can’t even use these. They’re heavy metal, they’ll bite into your skin, they can cut off circulation if they’re too tight – did you even get the key? There’s no easy way out of them if there’s an emergency, and _furthermore_ –“

Goro didn’t get to finish his thought, because Akira is outright _glaring_ at him with strange, vindictive fire. “What do you mean, we ‘can’t’ use them?” He snaps, grabbing them back from Goro’s stunned hand. “I’ve been handcuffed, I know how it goes. I made it through _fine._ It’s just for realism for the scene. Of course I have the key, and we can, I dunno, get bolt cutters or whatever for the chain if you’re so worried about _safety._ ” He says the word with such derision, like _Goro_ is the asshole for even bringing it up. He stares, wondering if this is some tasteless joke of Akira’s. Goro always makes sure they’re safe when they want to get rough. Akira’s never thrown a fit about it before. Why is he getting so upset? “You’re my rival, Goro,” and Akira’s voice, while still angry, slips into exasperation. Like he’s explaining this to a child. “If we don’t keep pushing ourselves, keeping presenting a challenge, what even _are_ we?”

That stings. Unfairly. Of course they’re rivals, Goro knows that better than anyone. And he knows Akira is at his best when he has that furrow between his eyebrows when they’re playing darts, or a video game, or pool, and Goro gets to watch the tiny twisting microexpressions as Akira shows off, or inches his score just a smidge higher, sinks the ball into the pocket. Victory makes Akira look viciously triumphant, while defeat gives him an adorable pout. But that’s fun and games. No stakes. Just playing around. Does Akira really think that applies in the bedroom?

Well, Akira _does_ push him there, too. They’ve tried a lot of interesting things lately, a lot good, some less interesting. He supposes… this is just another of those things. “Right. Yes,” he ponders aloud, staring at the cuffs, trying to will the acceptance from his voice into his heart. “A challenge. Of course.” He straights, schools his expression down to something matching Akira’s. “You’re my rival, Akira. I will never let you down.”

* * *

Akira jolts in his seat and slams his laptop closed when Goro sits across from him at the library. “Did you forget I would pick you up today?” He teases with a smirk, sipping coffee from the on-campus branded to-go cup. He’d picked it up on his way specifically because of how much Akira despises their selection. Truthfully, Goro hated it too, but the tarry bitterness is worth Akira’s cute little irritated face, knowing Goro can still get to him like this.

Although now Akira looks skittish, like he got caught doing something bad. Goro holds his chin, giving Akira a certain look.

“Hey, don’t look at me like that! And stop drinking that swill,” he finally notices the cup in Goro’s hand, nose scrunching in disgust. “They just pour hot water into pre-ground beans, it’s nasty.”

Goro refrains from his usual needling response ( _isn’t that the exact same thing you do?_ ) because he doesn’t want to lose track of Akira’s suspicious behavior. “I will throw it out right now if you tell me what you were just looking at.”

The flush on his cheeks makes Goro wonder if he somehow _was_ watching something inappropriate in his college’s library. “No,” Akira admits, fiddling with his bangs. An old endearing habit. “I was just. Researching.”

“Researching…?” He leads.

“Stuff. Places. Hotels.” Goro’s curiosity coils into concern. Akira has a big research project due soon, hence late nights at the library. Goro picks him up after work when he can. He hadn’t even mentioned the scene for days, too wrapped up in school work and catching a few gentle moments with his boyfriend before rushing back to class or his own jobs. While he hopes Akira is planning a vacation, he suspects what he might actually be focusing on.

“Are you planning on going anywhere, Akira?”

He shrugs a shoulder, keeps playing with his bangs. “I mean, kind of? I figured we could get a hotel room after I’m done with this project. For. You know.” For the first time, Akira is discussing _that_ with a bit of trepidation, not the usual bright enthusiastic interest. Goro wants to sigh in relief.

“Did you change your mind about it?” _Just say yes, we don’t have to do this. You don’t actually want this either, right?_

But Akira’s eyes harden, directly correlating to the loss of all air in Goro’s lungs. “No, of course not! I really want too, still. It’s just, talking about it in public is embarrassing.”

That didn’t seem to be the case at Jazz Jinn… but, whatever. “So, you want to rent a hotel room for this? Neither of our places will do?”

Akira fidgets, avoiding his eyes. “They’re just so… familiar? I want some place new. Something that looks kind of like that room.” A chill settles across Goro’s shoulders, creeps down towards his heart.

“You want… a room that looks like that one?” He can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Akira huffs. “Just, not exactly. Obviously no hotel room is going to look like a scary underground room in a police station. I just want someplace different, with similar gray walls, a table we can use. A little self-contained place. I think it will help set the scene.”

“But _my_ job is to set the scene _for_ you,” Goro tries to insist, keeping in mind where they are. He’s trying not to raise his voice with frustration. He’s not sure he’s succeeding. “Will changing the setting do much? Wouldn’t a familiar place be better for… later?”

Akira dips his both hands in his messy hair now, abandoning the single fiddly lock to scrub frantically at his whole scalp. “Goro, you’ve been on TV. The setting really helps set any scene, right?” He wants to interrupt to remind Akira he had been on talk show sets, not dramas, but Akira doesn’t give him a chance. “I was just looking, anyway, like I said nothing is going to be a perfect match. It’s not like it’s going to _upset_ me or anything, I’m fine.” Goro opens his mouth and the words _what about me_ almost slip out before he shuts himself down. If Akira’s fine, so is he. “Besides, when we’re done, it can be like a vacation. I promise if I can’t find something, we can just get a nice room somewhere and turn the whole thing into a vacation, okay?” Gray eyes _burn_ behind his glasses. Goro hadn’t realized he had been wearing them. It’s rare when Akira puts them on these days, usually when he’s trying to hide something. Or when _he_ wants to hide.

Before Goro can follow that thought, Akira plucks the styrofoam cup from his lax hands and expertly chucks it directly into the garbage can across the room, somehow managing not to spill a drop. He’s got that cocky grin plastered back on as Goro stares at him, mortified. “Come on, I told you what I was looking at and thensome, it was overdo. You said you’d throw it out. Take me back to Leblanc, I’ll make you a real coffee.”

Unable to resist Akira’s homemade coffee, Goro agrees, Akira’s mystery searches already fading away into static.

* * *

“How should it go?” Goro asks, tracing a nothing pattern into Akira’s bare shoulder.

“Mmm?” Akira warbles, lifting his head weakly from Goro’s chest.

“The scene,” Goro reiterates. “You mentioned it before you started blowing me, and then we didn’t exactly have a chance to finish our conversation.”

“Oh.” Akira snuggles in closer to Goro’s bare chest, still in that fucked-out haze where he’s usually too out of it to be clever or snide. The softest, rawest, most essential Akira, which Goro treasures in a way he’d never admit even to himself. The prize to be won after they have a scene together, with Akira trembling and exhausted and broken open for Goro to lavish. The one thing he’s looking forward to for their next planned session. “Well, how did it go back then? For you?”

Goro tightens his arm around Akira’s waist. “Does it matter? We’re making our own scene, aren’t we? What do you _want_ to happen?”

“Yeah, well.” Akira’s sigh tickles Goro’s overstimulated nipples. “I kinda want it to be like it was back then. Like I said, I never got to see you. I always wondered what it looked like from your end.” Akira keeps going despite the way Goro’s heart accelerates, his breathing shallows. “I’m tied up and out of it from the interrogation. Then you show up. You probably say some bad guy shit, then make me look up at you. Maybe slap me around some to wake me up. You make me suck you off, then fuck me. All at gunpoint.” Akira sounds far away, whether that’s from postcoital haze or arousal at the prospect of future coitus, it’s hard to be sure.

“Pretty straightforward for a fantasy,” Goro teases as he internally counts down. _Five things I see, four things I feel, three things I hear, two things I smell, one thing I taste._ “I guess you already got the handcuffs, and we still have the model guns from the old days. Any other props we should bring? No toys or anything?”

Akira raises his head again, looking at Goro with a whispy confusion. “No, not model guns,” he says vaguely, eyes imploring something.

Goro’s brow furrows. He refuses to understand what Akira is saying. “What do you mean, no model guns? Do you not have any left? Can’t we just take a visit to the airsoft shop and…”

Akira shakes his head resoundly. “No, no models _at all._ Don’t you still have a real one?”

The horror dawns slowly, like it does in movies. Goro blames the sex for impairing him so badly, for not realizing where Akira was going with this already and shutting it down. Although, he is glad at the same time, that sex weakened Akira’s defenses enough to admit what _terrible ideas_ he’s been getting in his head.

“No,” Goro almost yells it. “No! Absolutely not. No way.”

Sobriety chases out the vulnerability in his eyes, filling them with determination. “Oh, come _on_ , Goro –” he starts, but Goro doesn’t let him finish.

“No, Akira, absolutely not. Are you crazy? No. Hard no.” Akira opens his mouth with a manic little gleam in his eye, starts to say, _I know what else is hard_ but only gets the first syllable before Goro rounds on him. “Akira.” Goro softens his tone, cradles his boyfriend’s face in his hands and makes him meet his eyes. “Akira, look at me, please. Are you okay? You’ve been focused on this for weeks, and acting oddly. We’ve still got a month or so left until your winter break. You’ve been working a lot of shifts and staying up late for school. Are you _sure –_ ”

And then the fire is back, burning like molten steel, and Akira sits up, pushing off Goro’s chest so hard it’s like he shoved him, now towering over him with eyes full of rage. “What’s _up_ with you, acting like this? You’ve never pitched such a fit about a scene like this before. It’s no different than anything else we’ve done!”

Goro wants to argue with every word Akira just said – especially _fit_ Goro does not throw _fits –_ but one thing at a time. “A real gun, Akira? That’s _very_ different from anything we’ve ever done!”

“No different from what you’ve done before,” Akira shoots back, and Goro flinches like he’s been slapped.

“What?” He bites out, sharp and furious.

“You heard me!” And yes, they’re actually yelling now, naked in his bed, Akira bracketing himself over Goro’s head and shouting down at him, inches apart. “You’ve already shot me once, haven’t you Goro? Oh wait, that wasn’t _the real me,_ was it? But you didn’t know that, then. You shot me, thought you killed me, and just walked away! You could handle that just fine, couldn’t you, but you don’t think I can, huh? Is that it? Not your rival, not actually good enough, can’t handle the same stuff you can, it’s like you don’t trust me!” Akira’s talking fast, loud, voice cracking on the peaks and grating on the lows, so unlike Akira Goro can’t speak, can’t grab him and hold him tight and plead _I wasn’t fine, I couldn’t handle it, you didn’t see what it did to me, how it ruined me,_ _and almost killed me_ , because Akira is still yelling, hot tears filling his eyes but he blinks them back as he continues. “Do you not trust me, Goro? You keep treating me with kid gloves, like I’m not the one who suggested this, the one who keeps bringing it up. I _want_ this, but you keep asking all these questions like you think I don’t, like I’m, somehow, doing this against my will. Aren’t we rivals, Goro?” He asks again, eyes wild and shining. The eyes of a godkiller, of the savior of humanity and free will and Goro himself, bright and desperate. “Aren’t we supposed to push each other? Who else can challenge me like you do, who else can I trust to share these things with?”

Are they seriously having a fight over Goro’s unwillingness to bring a gun into a BDSM scene? It’s so ridiculous Goro wants to laugh, but Akira’s face and furious voice demand answers. The tension between them coils tightly like a viper seconds from striking, except this viper might just gather all his shit and go home and not talk to Goro for a week. Goro rests his hands on Akira’s shoulders, trying to soothe him like his therapist taught him. _Acknowledge his pain. Don’t turn it back to yourself but explain your point of view. Try to find a compromise._

“I trust you,” he murmurs like he’s trying to calm an animal. “Of course we’re rivals. I know you want this, no one’s making you.” He takes a deep, quiet breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to… invalidate you, make you feel like you’re not. You _are._ But…” Goro forces himself to keep looking in Akira’s eyes. “It’s still dangerous, okay? There’s a reason they’re illegal, Akira. Even if I take every precaution, there’s risk, and I… I don’t want to hurt you.” His thumbs worry groves in his boyfriend’s skin, trying to get his feelings across.

“You won’t hurt me,” Akira reassures, leaning in and kissing the bridge of his nose. Now that Goro’s apparently relenting, Akira’s much more agreeable. “You never hurt me in ways I don’t want. I love you, Goro.”

“I love you too, Akira.” He has to swallow down a mouthful of bile to get the words out. Did he just… agree to Akira’s idea?

* * *

“I want you to fuck my ass.”

Goro leans over and types the note into his open word document with his right hand, red pen still in his left. He likes making a list of things they want to do before a scene, script it out somewhat. Akira used to tease him for being a control freak, but it’s nice for both of them to know what to expect, what they will and won’t do, and importantly, when they are finished. Sometimes Akira’s done after he comes once, sometimes he wants Goro to drag it out of him, make beg and plead after five or six orgasms, overtimulating and raw until he safewords. For something like the interrogation room, Goro wants to make absolutely sure Akira can expect everything that’s going to happen so he doesn’t panic. And Goro wants to make sure nothing will cross any of his lines, either. After adding Akira’s request, he returns to re-reading Akira’s paper, happily eviscerating it with his trusty pen while the dull _thunk, thunk_ of the knife against the cutting board echoes from the kitchen.

“Are you sure that’s all you want?”

“After you fuck my face, yeah, just go right for it.” He’s making curry tonight, nostalgic and comforting. The familiar scent of spices fills Goro’s apartment.

_Thunk, thunk._

Goro spins the pen between his fingers. Not as skillfully as Akira, but one of his habits he’s picked up. “It’s harder to make you come that way, but I suppose we can figure something out –”

“Don’t worry about that,” Akira interrupts airily, his chopping ringing more solid, more staccato than before. “This is about the ‘consensual non-consent,’ you said, right? Would you really be focused on my pleasure at the moment? Just take what you want, don’t try to make me feel good. If I come, I come, but don’t focus on that.” _Thunk. Thunk._

“If that’s what you want… sure. Maybe I can get you off later as part of aftercare, if you’re close.”

Akira hums noncommittally.

“I guess if you want me to go right in to it, you can prep yourself before we start. You can spend a few minutes in the bathroom to warm up so we can get right to it?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” Akira’s voice seems distracted. _Thunk, thunk._ “Read it back to me?’

Goro sighs and sets down the pen. He’s still not finished reading his first page. “Alright, I added in your prep to the pre-scene stuff. I’ll check my own… equipment, while you’re getting ready. We have our old uniforms. I’ll handcuff you in the chair and keep the key in my trouser pocket just in case. I _still_ think we should bring the bolt-cutters.” No response. Typical. “Then once you’re secure, I’ll leave the room and wait several minutes before re-entering. We’ll call each other by last names. I’ll taunt you a bit, then I’ll fuck your face. When you’re nice and messy, I’ll throw you to the ground. Step on you, more taunting. Then I’ll flip you around and fuck your ass until I come. Sound good?”

Goro’s gotten good at reading these things methodically and clinically. Accurate, to the point. No stray laughs from him. Akira is usually the giggly one, looking over the list with a big silly grin plastered on his face, cracking jokes about planning a sex adventure. But this time, Akira doesn’t say anything back. The chopping gets louder and harder. The cutting board rattles at each impact. _Thunk. THUNK._

Goro stands up and heads into the kitchen. Akira’s eyes are bright, blank, and empty. His hands keep lifting the big butcher blade, then striking it against.. nothing. The potatoes he’d been roughly chopping had been entirely minced, and now Akira’s blade rhythmically thwacked against nothing. Goro smoothed his hands down Akira’s shoulders, to his elbows, gently freeing the knife from his grip. He should have stopped the whole thing right there. But when Goro asked if he was okay, his eyes snapped back to life and he shot back, “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

* * *

Goro hasn’t been with Akira long enough to see how he acts towards the end of November. So he doesn’t think twice when Akira books their hotel room for 11/20.

* * *

Goro fiddles with the pistol for the thousandth time. He checked the chamber – empty. He checks the grip – there’s no clip. Safety is still on. He aims at the floor and pulls, and the trigger doesn’t even depress. Repeat. Gloves like he used to wear; he hasn’t done that for a while. His old uniform fits a little too tight, snug around his shoulders. Unfamiliar. Jarring. Disconnected.

Akira’s in the bathroom. Has been for a while. Goro took time to prepare the room like Akira wanted. Took down what pictures he could, especially the ones that would be in Akira’s eyeline. Shoved the beds toward the back of the room. A single table, two chairs, in the middle of the room. Akira will have his back to all these things, facing the door. Having an electric lock is good, he said. Even more lifelike.

Checks the chamber. Confirms there’s no clip. Safety. Repeat.

Akira’s taking too long. He doesn’t hope he’s changed his mind; he made it clear how he feels about that. But damn, he’s been in there a while. Maybe he wants to be really loose for Goro later. He tries to work up the excitement for it, but really, he’ll be happiest when they get to the other side of this. Just when he’s ready to knock to check on him, Akira opens the door and walks out. Seeing him back in the Shujin uniform dredges up a wretch of emotions from the silty depths of his soul. Everything covered in grit and sand and mud, thick and weighty. At least Akira looks a little nervous, too, eyes darting around the room behind his fake glasses, never lingering on a single point too long.

“You did good,” he murmurs without looking at him.

Deep breath. “Are you ready?” One more time – chamber, clip, safety. Akira puts one hand over his, managing a thin smile.

“You worry too much,” Akira forces out. “Yeah, let’s get started.”

Akira sits behind the table lets Goro apply the heavy (real, _real_ ) handcuffs to him. Akira tells him to pull them harder, twice.

“Good?” Goro asks for the third or fourth time. Akira twists and yanks, and the chains jangle.

Akira rolls his eyes. “Yes, for the last time. Remember, don’t –”

“Don’t break character, I remember. I won’t. You remember the safeword?”

“‘Antithesis,’ yes I remember, you pretentious goon,” he says, but with gentle admonition. He stares up at Goro, expression unreadable. Opens his mouth, closes it. Pauses.

“What is it?”

Akira bites his lip. “Hit me.”

Goro blinks. “What?”

Resolve fills Akira’s eyes, and he repeats himself more forcefully. “Hit me. Kick me, punch me.”

But Goro doesn’t understand. “Akira, why would I…”

“The bruises,” he explains in exasperation. “Back then, I was covered in bruises, so if you just hit me for a while...”

“No,” Goro spits out, and he can’t say it fast enough. “Akira, are you kidding, I’m not going to just, _hit you,_ and the scene hasn’t even started –”

“I don’t want it during the scene, it has to be _before_ , so I’ll be sore and aching when you come in…” Akira’s not looking at him anymore, fixated on the woodgrain pattern of the table. His eyes are stormy and vague.

“Akira… _no._ No, I won’t.”

Akira growls, writhing in frustration, but he’s already tied up so he can’t do much else. “Why not?”

Does he really have to explain why he’s not going to repeat the _police brutality_ and _assault_ he experienced? He saw Sae’s cognition of Akira. He remembers the black and purple welts across his face, the red scabbed rings around his wrists. Can’t even imagine what might have been under his clothes. And Sae’s perception of Akira would have been accurate – she would remember what a suspect in custody looked like. Akira must have been injured for weeks after, maybe even still hiding some marks when they met on the ship. It’s not something Goro can inflict on Akira, for _lots_ of reasons. Why is Akira being like this?

“Because I’m not here to hurt you,” is all he can think to say, Akira opens his mouth to protest when Goro forces out, “It’s non-negotiable. I’m serious. If you keep insisting, I’m calling this whole thing off.”

The threat hangs in the air. Akira schools his face into impassivity. Goro _hates_ when he does that. The bastard is too good at hiding his emotions.

“Okay,” he finally says. He stands briefly to kiss the bridge of Goro’s nose. “Then get out there and get in character.”

Deep breath. Slow, practiced. Chamber clip safety. Right. Goro turns and walks outside the room and stands in the hall.

He counts things he can see, feel, hear, smell, and taste until his breathing settles. Realizes he probably shouldn’t have his gun out in the hotel hallway, stows it away. The motion is uncomfortably familiar. Goro fights to control his breathing. Did Akira really ask him to do all this for “realism”? Did Akira think he actually would _beat_ him? Is that really what he thinks of his boyfriend? And he hadn’t mentioned it during all their planning sessions. Did he hope Goro would just give in at the unexpected request? He should know by now that Goro hates deviating from their plan. It’s dangerous. They need to agree on everything that’s going to happen in advance so nothing is too shocking or upsetting. Even though this interrogation room play has been nothing but shocking and upsetting and it hasn’t even started yet...

One more deep breath. _He’s waiting on you, Goro,_ he tells himself. Be in character. He seeks out that hollow space he carved out for himself in his head, a place walled off from emotions, feelings. Different, but similar to where he goes when he gets consensually rough with Akira. The place filled with pleasant static, and he sinks back into it. Lets the fuzz fill his limbs until he’s floating in a slightly ticklish buzzing haze.

Behind this door is Kurusu Akira, leader of the Phantom Thieves. Once he’s dead, his plan can move forward. He’s nobody. He’s trash. He’s nothing, _nothing but an obstacle –_

Akechi lets himself in to the interrogation room, his face gentle. Kurusu’s head lolls against his chest, which raises and lowers in an uneven pattern. ( _Somewhere, Goro notes this oddity. Subspace, already?_ ) “Good evening, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi says, pressing one gloved finger to his lips. “I’m here to rescue you!” The other boy’s head raises just a fraction, and he sees a glint of dull gray eyes. Then he laughs, letting the facade fade away, a fierce, wild grin splitting his features. “Is that what you thought I’d say?"

He walks over to Kurusu and grabs a fistful of curls, forcing his head up at a painful angle to look in his eyes. Kurusu barely reacts, flinching at the pain, corners of his eyes crinkling with confusion and hurt, but otherwise, unreadable. Typical. “Did you really think you could outsmart us? You have no idea who you and your friends have pissed off, you know. This was really the only way it ever could have ended.” With his left hand, he pulls the gun from inside his jacket. Angling the barrel at his temple, he sees fear flickering in Kurusu’s eyes. It’s more than a little arousing.

“You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Don’t speak, just nod.” Kurusu waits, eyes frozen on the gun. ( _It’s too much, I told him it’s too much! But I checked, it’s safe, it’s unloaded, he can’t…_ ) Finally he nods, a fine tremor shaking down his shoulders.

“Good boy,” Akechi purrs, and Kurusu jolts. That earns a snicker from the detective. “What, you like it when I praise you?” He digs the hand in his scalp harder, sort of disappointed the gloves don’t let him sink his nails into his skin. “Don’t get used to it, Joker. You know what I’m here for.” He presses the gun further into his temple, and the boy goes deathly still.

( _No, wait, is he supposed to speak?_ _Didn’t Akira want some back and forth be_ _fore they started_ _?_ )

“Well,” Akechi finishes his own thought. “Maybe it’s not just the _one_ thing I’m here for.”

He yanks Kurusu’s head back even further, straining until he can see the leaping, frantic throbbing at the sides of his neck, the gulping of air bobbing his throat. Pulls and pulls until Kurusu’s back bends, strains, tries to account for the hyperextension of his throat. Kurusu’s eyes are wide, pupils dilated. “Was this what you imagined between us, Kurusu?” Akechi croons sweetly. “A good hard fuck right at the end? I know you want me. Tell me how bad you want me.”

 _(Can’t break character to check in on him, but this is in character. He needs Akira to respond._ )

Gasping, swallowing again, trying to speak through the strain of his larynx. “If you don’t tell me,” Akechi sneers, “then I can just kill you now, and take what I want from your corpse.” Kurusu’s dazed eyes glimmer with sudden horror, flicking up to search Goro’s unforgiving gaze. But underneath his shock, Akechi sees a pearl of need. Oh, he likes that. Disgusting. Akechi spits on his face and he flinches away as best he can, the wetness rolling down his cheek like a tear. “Tell me now if you want to be alive for it or not.”

“I want you,” Kurusu blurts out, legs trembling and writhing in place. “Always… wanted you, _please_ let me…”

Akechi spits on him again for begging so hopelessly pathetic. A rival like him, how did Akechi ever think he was worthy? “Shut up, whore. I’m not going to _let_ you do anything. You’re going to do what I say, is that clear?” Kurusu nods, blinking up at him rapidly. “Good.” Akechi slips between Kurusu and the table, hopping up on the edge, keeping the gun lazily trained between his eyes with one hand, his other unbuckling his belt. “Here’s what you’re going to do, Kurusu. You’re going to get me hard using that sharp mouth of yours. If I feel teeth I’m blowing your brains out and using you to finish myself off.” He licks his lips at the way Kurusu’s mouth opens in surprise, or maybe anticipation. “If you do good enough, I might even fuck you, too. How does that sound?” He asks, mock-sweet, taunting. “If you refuse, I can always kill you now,” He wiggles the gun tellingly.

Kurusu doesn’t speak again. Just stares up at Akechi with glazed, hungry eyes, stupid mouth limp and agape like he forgot what he was doing with it. “Well, I don’t hear any objections, then.” He sets the gun down for a moment, then finishes undoing his pants, pulling his cock from his boxers. Grabbing Kurusu’s curls once more, he pulls him roughly between his legs. “Get to work.”

Kurusu’s tongue starts on him right away, overeager and desperate, lapping the underside and the head and all around. Without his hands, Kurusu has to work his mouth even more, neck and back muscles straining, leaning in to get a good angle. Akechi can see his arms locked behind him, shoulder blades scrunched up, even as his mouth bobs up and down with frantic licks and kisses. He’s already reacting, too, twitching and hardening right around Kurusu’s lips. “I’ve fantasized about this, you know,” he teases, rolling and arching his hips against Kurusu’s cheeks as best he can. “Just grabbing you and shoving that mouth around down my cock.” The trash moans with a _mmmff_ , eyes drifting shut. “You always have something smart to say, but you look best when you shut the fuck up.” With two gloved fingers, Akechi wrenches Kurusu’s mouth open, pulling down his lips and jaw to widen his mouth.

“Don’t just lick me,” he growls, impatient. One hand returns to the gun resting on the table, a violent threat. “Suck me off properly.” And again, like a good bitch, Kurusu complies, sliding his wet hot mouth around Akechi’s half-hard dick. He swallows him immediately, throat flexing and spasming. Even at half-mast, Akechi isn’t small, and he laughs at how easily Kurusu takes to this. “Fuck, this isn’t your first cock, is it, Joker?” Another hand rests on the back of his head so Akechi can rock into his mouth, pressing his hardening erection further and further into the warm twitching tightness of Kurusu’s throat. “You take me so good… how much cock have you had before, you little slut? You’re not even gagging at all.” Tightening his hand, Akechi rams between his teeth once, hard as he can, and the glottal stop Kurusu chokes out almost gets him off.

“Don’t get sick on me now,” Akechi crows, finding a rhythm he can sustain, rocking in and out of Kurusu’s slack mouth. Fingers push down harder on his bottom teeth, forcing his jaw wider until he can almost hear the hinges creak. “You were just starting to impress me.” Kurusu looks up at him, slate eyes full of tears, shoulders tight and sharp, his thighs clenched together. Actually _rubbing_ together, slight twitches high between his legs, like he was…

Akechi lifts one foot and slams it on the top of one of Kurusu’s thighs, making the other boy cry out in pain, although Akechi’s hand in his hair keeps his cock snugly in place. “Are you enjoying yourself, Kurusu?” He asks, digging his heel between two major muscle groups. Akechi feels Kurusu fight back against his grip, trying to lift his head, but it’s a fruitless endeavor. “I see you’re getting aroused from blowing me. Filthy degenerate scum.” He’d spit on him again, but it’s not even worth the effort. “You think I’m doing this for _you?_ You’re not the one you should worry about pleasuring, Kurusu. Just hold the fuck still.”

Now with both hands, Akechi grabs Kurusu behind the ears, fistfuls of hair, yanking hard until he yelps. At the flex of his contracting muscles trying to speak, Akechi slams home, burying his cock between his lips and pressing his chin and nose flush to his pelvis. The panicked contractions of Kurusu’s throat, the vibrato of his moans, feel so fucking good, he just closes his eyes and sighs in bliss. Lets it linger, lets his muscles pulse around his cock, the stuttered, choked sound as he tries and fails to breathe, arms and legs twitching trying to stay, foot slamming on the floor. He imagines his rival’s body burning, aching, tingling from the suffocation…

Akechi rips him off his cock, spluttering, coughing, wheezing through a panicked, abused throat. “Still aroused for me, Kurusu?” He mocks, sick and sweet. Kurusu licks his bottom lip, a thick line of drool unspooling at the corner of his mouth. “Still want to take what I can give?”

A flash of something in his eyes. Something like the look he gets when they play darts, or pool, or Akechi lets a little too much slip. ( _Does Akira know I’m checking on him? He looks annoyed. Maybe I tone it back._ ) A flash of rebellion Akechi needs to squash. “Because you’re getting it regardless. You’ve proven more entertaining than a corpse. So far.”

Pulling him down again, this time he flexes his hips into it, grinding in and out so he can feel the wet, slick slide of tongue against his shaft, the way Kurusu’s throat seizes every time it breaches his throat anew. The choked-off whimper he makes at every thrust, tears filling and spilling down his cheeks, washing away the remnants of Akechi’s earlier spittle. _Cute, he’s c_ _leaning himself up_ , Akechi thinks with a manic grin. How good of him. Maybe he deserves some praise. “Filthy fucking criminal,” Akechi groans as he increases his speed. Kurusu’s throat is actually _relaxing_ into this, fighting him less, swallowing him down rhythmically. He needs to increase the torment, in that case. He changes his rhythm, alternates randomly between shallow, regular thrusts, punctuated with the occasional hard, lingering one. Can’t let him get too comfortable, after all, and Akechi’s rewarded with surprised gags at every hard push. “Is this all you have to offer me, Kurusu? A half-entertaining chase for the semester, then you just give up as soon as you’re caught? Or did you just want to get fucked by me that badly?”

He pistons in and out of Kurusu’s mouth until he feels himself edge towards climax, then he pulls him off and shoves him into the back of the chair, handcuffs rattling. Kurusu’s limpid eyes stare downward, at some spot on the floor, his red lips shiny and swollen. Breathing short, rattly, rapid. Akechi would love nothing more than to paint that fucked-out face in ropes of his cum, but on some of those last few strokes, Kurusu’s weak jaw faltered and he felt the barest hardness of teeth. And even if he didn’t, Kurusu is in no place to protest. Seems a fine excuse for some extra punishment.

Before that flicker of rebellion can wake back up, Akechi grabs his shirt collar and hoists him up, only to throw him to the side to collapse face-first to the floor. Pressing his foot into the small of his back, Akechi leans his weight into him until he feels his bones and muscles shift in pain, and Kurusu groans weakly. “Now then, did you try to bite me, Kurusu? I told you what would happen if I felt teeth.” Hooking his toe under his hip, Akechi flips him onto his back, where Kurusu writhes from the discomfort of his handcuffed arms behind him and unnaturally-positioned shoulders. Then he moves his foot moves between his legs, his heel digging and grinding into his groin. Even though his shoe, he can feel the easy slide of fabric from Kurusu’s wetness. Akechi clucks his tongue.

“Really, you are such a filthy degenerate,” Akechi tsks, pressing his foot harder. Kurusu gasps and keens, straining down to meet the painful pressure. “You even like this, too, huh? Just stepping on your pitiful cunt gets you like this, huh?”

Kurusu whines and wriggles against him, like he could even get off to this. “I told you, whore, I’m not doing this for _you._ ” And at the last word, Akechi lifts his leg and slams it back down, and Kurusu jerks and _squeals_ _._ Akechi leans down and slaps his hand against his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses. “No one can hear you down here, anyway. I’m not interested in your pathetic screams.” Kurusu closes his eyes, tears flowing like streams, nods soundlessly. “Get up. On your feet.” Hooking his hand around one elbow, he pulls a stumbling, unsteady Kurusu to his feet and shoves his torso into the table, doubling him over. He makes quick work of his belt and zipper, yanking his pants and underwear down to his knees. Kurusu hisses at the cold contact of air on hot, bare skin.

One hand on his ass, spreading him apart, eagerness filling his lungs – then he stops. Goro’s veneer cracks. ( _No, don’t break character, stay together._ ) But Akira – Kurusu – his hole is rosy, small, _untouched._ ( _This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t – where do I –_ ) But… he wouldn’t look different, would he? He’s… they’re underground. Interrogation room. He’d been speaking to… Sae-san earlier, he… ( _No, he knew the plan, he was supposed to… but he didn’t? Then what was he…_ ) Goro – Akechi, draws in a long sharp breath. Gloved thumb presses at his entrance, meets resistance. Kurusu shudders and gulps down air. His knees shake. Breathes. ( _Should I stop? He said to keep going. He didn’t safeword. But I can’t – there’s nothing here I can – but down_ _ **there**_ _he’s –)_

His eyes track lower, to the wetness glistening further between his legs. Akechi knows what he wants. ( _I’ll have to improvise. He can safeword if he hates it._ )

Grasping his hips, Akechi flips him and hoists him fully on the table in the same motion, earning a surprised squeak from Kurusu even as his back slams against the wood and knocks the wind from him. His arms must be hurting underneath him, but that’s not Akechi’s concern as he sees Kurusu’s aroused sex, flushed and waiting. “Oh? So you really _were_ getting off on all that earlier, were you Kurusu?” He smirks at the boy, his knees struggling to close over his shameful arousal. Akechi puts a stop to that, pressing his thighs flat to the table with both hands. “Are you wet enough to take me already?” Akechi leans in and runs his tongue between his folds, reveling in Kurusu’s breathy mewls above him. ( _No safeword, he’s okay with me improvising?_ )

He relishes in the taste, drawing his tongue back into his mouth slowly. “Kurusu,” he purrs. “So turned on for me.” ( _But he still probably needs more._ ) “I want more. I want you to debase yourself with how much you want me,” Kurusu whines again, arching his hips as best he can to Akechi’s mouth. He chuckles. “Eager little slut,” he coos, then leans back in, hands keeping his parted as he takes his clit between his lips, sucking and rolling his tongue over it. Kurusu moans and whimpers as Akechi works him, slow circular draws of his tongue around the nub, picking up speed until Kurusu’s voice catches, cracks on a broken note of bliss. Sucks on it so hard until he’s keening, hips jutting into Akechi’s mouth in a desperate plea for more.

Akechi moves down lower, luxuriating in running his tongue up against his slit, flicking over his clit each time. Every flat press of his mouth between his legs, a tease here and there, occasionally leaning over to nip his thighs if he seemed to be having too much fun, gets Kurusu moaning, writhing, body struggling weakly to move from the awkward position and the way Akechi has him pinned. When he drives his tongue into his hole, Kurusu gasps and throws his head back, blowing out a held breath.

“Let’s see how loose you actually are,” Akechi mocks, letting go of one leg to drive a gloved finger where his tongue had just been. He can see the tension in the quivering lines of Kurusu’s legs, the tightening of his stomach, his eyes clenched tight and turned away. “Doesn’t it feel good? You’ve wanted me for so long, after all. Is it everything you’ve dreamed?” Meeting only minimal resistance, he adds a second finger and drives them deep and fast. Kurusu cries out pathetically at each thrust even as his lying little hips buck into Akechi’s hand. “Let me hear more of you, begging for me.”

Akechi leans in and takes his clit back between his lips, sucking gently in rhythm with his plunging fingers, and Kurusu mewls, unable to do anything but rut against him. Akechi hums with delight, sucking hard as his fingers blindly dig deep into his hole, curling up and twisting until – Kurusu hiccups in a shocked little gasp, arching his body either away or towards him, it’s impossible to tell. Guttural noises bubble from the back of his throat as Akechi presses into the deepest parts of his body, finding every angle that calls forth the sweetest of begging wordless voice. With his other hand, Akechi smooths over the skin above his pelvic arch, pulling at the flesh to make sure his clit stays fully exposed, overstimulated, hard, quivering in his mouth, tongue teasing it in slow wet sloppy circles as his fingers dive into his dripping hole. Kurusu’s legs are unrestrained now, knees clamping around Akechi’s head like he’s terrified he’ll stop. Kurusu’s breaths stilt in staccato broken notes, voice climbing its way through the desperate sounds of pleasure but never cresting over a single intelligible syllable and Akechi knows it’s about to happen, feels the tightening clutch of his cunt. So he increases the tempo of his fingers to hard, jabbing thrusts at his sweet spot, constant and steady as he sucks and licks and works him harder and harder until he hears Kurusu crying, actually crying, and his walls pulse hard around his fingers, clamping down on him as he arches into Akechi’s mouth, screaming wordlessly. Akechi can taste the rush of his come when he orgasms, and he greedily licks it up.

( _I guess making him come wasn’t exactly forbidden… as long as he feels good._ )

Kurusu lies on the table, spread out before him like a dream, panting, arms still pinned, face tight and eyes pinched shut, chest heaving, mouth limp and hanging open. As appetizing a thought as fucking his mouth again is, Akechi put in all this work to loosen him up, it’d be a shame to waste it. He’d almost forgotten his own cock, aching nakedly between his legs, hard just from Kurusu’s taste and sounds. But he’s ready now; they’re _both_ ready. Yanking him to the edge of the table, Akechi lines himself to Kurusu’s glistening entrance, pausing for just an instant. ( _He’s not looking at me… When did I last see his eyes? Hear him speak? ...still. No safeword._ )

Akechi shoves his dick into Kurusu’s tight cunt and grunts at the delicious heat and wetness gripping his cock. Kurusu gasps weakly, legs splayed open without any encouragement from Akechi’s forceful grip, like a common whore. “How do I feel, Kurusu?” Akechi groans, pulling halfway out before slamming back home. Kurusu doesn’t react beyond the shifting of his body in time with Akechi’s thrusts. “Everything you wanted? Everything you could have dreamed? It better be –” Akechi grips his hips and _yanks_ Kurusu hard on his dick, and the boy moans insensate under him. “This is the last pleasure you’ll ever feel in this miserable life.”

He works his cock in and out of Kurusu, watching his shoulders swaying back and forth under his thrusts, his face turned away into the table. Snarling, Akechi grabs his hair and wrenches him to the side, forcing his face to the light – it’s not fun if he doesn’t get to see his rival react to every grind and filthy word Akechi deigns throw his way, and he sees the tears flowing from his eyes, disappearing into his damp curled hair and leaving trails on the table. ( _Fuck!_ ) It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“Fuck, Kurusu,” Akechi snaps, slowing to rock himself with magnanimous gentleness, the perfect slide of flesh on flesh. “You feel so fucking good for me, Joker. Maybe I should have been fucking you longer. Such a shame I couldn’t use you to your full extent before I have to dispose of you.” Somehow, Kurusu’s voice gets deeper, a primal, desperate, whining thing, crying for something neither of them could name. Yet his face looks blank, except for the tears still pouring unrelenting from the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes. “Criminal trash, just a whore for me, aren’t you?”

Kurusu doesn’t react except for a tightening of his jaw and a change of pitch in his whiny voice. Goro growls, furious. How _dare_ Kurusu not appreciate this gift? With his other hand, he thumbs over his clit, flicking it with too much pressure, too much speed, knowing it’s already sensitive from earlier. Rolling his finger over the nub in harsh circles, pressing it to the point of pain. Kurusu’s mouth cracks open and he howls, closed-off face contorting further with pain and pleasure. Just for fun, Akechi tightens the grip in his hair, curling his wrist outward for maximum pull. The delicious clenching and spasming around his cock makes it worth it, and he dimly realizes Kurusu may have come again from that.

“ _Yes,_ ” Akechi hisses. “Knew this is all you’d be good for. Just a good hole for me. And you like it, don’t you? You _want_ me to use you.” He snaps his hips up, leaning on the balls of his feet, driving his cock at an angle deep inside and under his pelvic bone. His eyes dart frantically under his eyelids, tears still slipping underneath his long fucking lashes. The noises he’s making sound like sobbing, patterned cries of anguish underneath trailing threads of pleasure.

God, Akechi can’t take it anymore. ( _Can’t take it, can’t take it._ ) He speeds up, short, hard thrusts that spark white hot lights behind his eyes as he chases his pleasure in Kurusu’s pliant, willing body. Both hands return to his hips, points of gloves digging into exposed flesh, and he wishes he had thought to remove them because he wants to claw into Kurusu’s body, keep his skin and blood under his nails as a keepsake, suck them into his mouth when he jerks off to the memories of his twisted, hurt face, the embrace of his pussy holding him so tight, so desperate.

“Fucking, _hell Joker –_ ” he pants, “You’re so – _god_ – perfect bitch, such a good slut, taking me so good. _A_ _hhh_ , this is it… the last thing you’ll ever fucking feel is my cock in your hole –”

Kurusu whines, high, animalistic, unnatural, and it shoots right to Akechi’s dick. His rhythm stutters, hips pumping, cock already sore from the intensity and he bets Kurusu feels it even harder, and it makes him grin with a wild energy. “Yes, Kurusu, yes, remember this feeling, it’s the last thing you’re ever gonna get. You trash, you’re pathetic, wanting me so bad –” Akechi groans, doubling over, pleasure rising in a damp pressure at the back of his neck. The wet slaps of their bodies mingle with guttural sounds they’re both making, and Akechi fucks into Kurusu with abandon, like it’s the last thing either of them are ever going to do, like Akechi intends to follow him to the grave with his dick buried inside him so he’ll always own him, own this moment, carving his place into his body for however much longer it will have heat and life –

“Fuck! _Fuck!_ ”

Akechi collapses over Kurusu like he’s been shot, cum filling his cunt in vicious bursts, whole body trembling violently. Kurusu lies there, still, suddenly deathly quiet, like he’s gone already.

He wants to linger in this moment, feel his cock grow soft in his body, curl around his body like some strange instinct to cuddle with the boy who’s about to be dead any second. With a sigh of regret, Akechi pulls out, taking a second to memorize the way his spend pools out of Kurusu in a filthy little puddle on the table.

“Whore,” Akechi gasps out. He’d spit on him again but his mouth is weirdly dry. He had forgotten the gun he’d set on the table a lifetime ago, almost knocked to the ground from his ministrations. He reaches for it, but his hand is shaking. Maybe from the exertion of fingering Kurusu earlier? But it’s both hands… even as he holds it in a two-handed grip, the gun quivers. Fuck, he’ll deal with that later. The gun goes back in his jacket pocket as he tucks himself back into his slacks.

He takes a fistful of Akira’s lapels and sits him up. Kurusu’s eyes are open finally, but they might as well be closed for how empty they are. Like a doll’s eyes. Lids drooping, irises dull as gravestones. Fitting, he supposes. He shoves Kurusu back into the chair, and he slumps so hard he almost falls out of it. Akechi’s hands haven’t gotten any steadier, but now it’s – it’s time. Kurusu’s head is almost between his knees, doubled over, a lifeless doll already. It won’t take much to... to… press the gun to the top of his head… pull the…

Akechi’s hands fumble. Where did this shaking come from? He’d fired this gun before. He’d killed people just like this. ( _Just like this, just like this, I almost killed him for real just like this._ ) He gets the gun in his hand again, lighter than he remembers. ( _Chamber, clip safety, I checked it before, didn’t I? Did I check it enough?_ ) The barrel up against the crown of his skull. Kurusu doesn’t flinch. It’s almost likes he’s bowed in prayer. Who is he praying for, himself? ( _Maybe he should pray for me._ ) His finger rests on the side of the trigger guard. He takes a deep breath like he’s been taught. He hold his breath like he’s been taught. He puts his finger on the trigger and squeeze…

Squeeze…

Squeeze the trigger…

One trigger pull

And then

he

is

“Antithesis. Antithesis!” The words jump from Goro’s heart like a scream, and he drops the gun, falling to his hands and knees and panting. How long had he held that breath? How long did he stand there staring at Akira with a gun to him? In his head, he hears screaming, wailing, like the voices of the damned tormenting him and he wants to scratch and pull his hair out and gnash his teeth, and he just keeps saying “antithesis” expecting Akira to wake up and say the words he always says to him, to ground him, comfort him, reassure him because – what the hell had he almost done? What the hell _had_ he done, he’d said such terrible things – he’d done _awful_ things, his stomach clenches like he’s going to vomit but he hadn’t eaten anything all day for this exact reason, his head spins and – and –

Akira hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t moved. Still hunched over himself like he’d passed out – fuck what if he passed out? His need to take care of Akira overwhelms his own panic, and he shoves it down where it’s always been shoved down.

Tilts up his head, studies his eyes. Pupils unnaturally wide, muscles slack, mouth dry. Goro was never a real detective, but his deductive reasoning helped him look like one. And with all the evidence in front of him, Akira is… Akira might be…

Fuck. He’s seen this before, hasn’t he. Goro breaths in through his nose, out through his mouth. It couldn’t be. But the evidence slots into place. It _has_ to be. Akira’s never… he’s not… and yet he is.

“Akira,” Goro says, voice low and insistent. “Akira, focus. Look at me.”

Akira blinks at him, dazed. "Akechi...?" It feels like a slap to the face, because the scene is over, it ended minutes ago –

"Akira," he says again. Grounding him. He needs to be back to reality. "What did you take."

"Oh. Goro." Akira gives him a little smile, weak and faltering, his eyes still hazy with something. Goro recognizes that smile. It’s the one he uses when he’s trying to persuade Goro to do something for him. "Nothing much. A couple Tylenol." Goro wants to scream, wants to shake Akira like a ragdoll.

"You're lying. Do I need to take you to the emergency room?" It's manipulative, but that's exactly what Akira expects of him, isn't it? It’s clearly what he expects, what he wants from him, based on everything, _everything_ that led them to this point.

"What...?" Akira's eyes struggle to focus on Goro, emotion entering his voice for the first time all night. "No, I'm... I'm okay…"

"Then _tell me what you took_." His voice is too loud, the tone too urgent. Akira is silent for a long moment.

"A couple Ambien?" 

"And why," Goro starts. What a pointless question. Akira's intentions should've been clear the moment he suggested they roleplay the day Goro killed him. He didn’t trust him. He didn’t want to be with him. He wanted… maybe he wanted to die, and he wanted to use Goro to do it.

"Couldn't... get the drugs they used. Takemi... wouldn't tell me."

Goro opens his mouth. Closes it. Can’t grasp his thoughts, isn’t sure he’s having any. Head spins, lightness, unsteady. Backs away, shaky, as Akira’s eyes work to refocus on Goro as he gets further and further away.

“Goro?”

Bile rises in his throat, gagging him. He turns and bolts into the bathroom and collapses against the toilet. Luckily the lid is up because his stomach tightens and heaves and he can’t breathe, his whole body doubled over the bowl, trying to squeeze out the food he hadn’t been able to eat all day and all that comes up is acid and it burns, it hurts, he’s already sweating and cramping and tears prick his eyes. When the clenching fades he sucks in reedy, shallow breaths, trying not to gag all over again on the burning at the back of his throat, tries to swallow down the nausea. He flushes the toilet and sees his hand – a gloved hand – the same kind of hand that murdered Akira, and a sound like a scream whispers from his chest, low and controlled but just as frantic, and he rips them off, throwing them to the floor.

He leans his cheek against the porcelain, letting the coolness ease the frantic heat of his panic. Focuses on taking deeper, slower breaths so he doesn’t pass out. His knees shake against the tile, fingertips pale. What can… he see. What can he feel. Focus on those things. Ground. Return to the moment, even if the moment is unbearable and he’d rather be anywhere else.

Only then does he hear Akira’s thin, desperate voice calling for him, the rattle of the handcuffs he forgot to unlock. Shit, shit, Akira needs him, he just _left_ him there, he panicked and he couldn’t help him, he needs him, he needs to take care of Akira. He stumbles to his feet, goes to the sink to get a palmful of water to rinse out his disgusting mouth when –

He sees a needle on the counter. He grips the edges to keep from falling over, vision tunneling. The depressed plunger. The drop or two of clear liquid still in the reservoir, not pushed through. The… the small elastic tourniquet…

Goro’s stomach clenches horrifically tight, and he thinks he’s going to dry heave into the sink, too, but he shoves it down, shoves it all down.

No thought exercises now. No comforting words from a therapist about communication and understanding and coping techniques. He sinks down, deep down, down into the Black-Mask shaped hole in the pit of his soul, too dark and small to fight against, or question anything.

Akira needs him.

When he opens the door, Goro feels more like he did that one terrible November night than he did when he set the scene. Like he’s standing two feet behind himself, seeing an illusion that looks just like him. Feels himself walking forward a wide-eyed Akira. Tears have left tracks down his cheeks, shiny little lines that reflect in the light. Some from before, others new. Specks of salt have dried on his glasses. Although his eyes already look dry. What an accomplished faker.

“Goro,” Akira whispers, shoulders collapsing like nothing inside Akira can hold them up.

Goro needs to take care of him.

He undoes the cuffs and massages the red rings on his wrists. He hands slide up, working at the muscles in his arms, pushing up the fabric to feel his fever-hot skin, trying to ply them loose and work out the aches and pains, and he sees – there’s a _mark_ inside his elbow, a tiny pinprick of red that hadn’t been there last night and – and –

Akira snatches his arm back.

“Akira,” Goro sighs when Akira doesn’t say anything. Shoves down the anger. Shoves down the hurt. That won’t help Akira right now. “Akira, do you need a hospital?”

His eyes are glassy, distant, but it could be from the way Goro left him in a rush. Someone needs to take care of Akira. He kneels in front of him, takes his head in his hands. “Akira,” he says quieter, calm and low like he always does when he wants to pull him out of the darkness of his head. “Akira, come here.” His boyfriend complies instantly, practically melting off the chair and into Goro’s arms, crawling in his lap, ducking his head tight under his chin. “What was in the syringe?” He asks. Akira trembles violently, and he knows it hurts Akira to ask, but if it’s something dangerous, a medical professional may be part of their aftercare routine.

“S’nothing,” he murmurs.

“I’m not mad,” Goro soothes, and he’s not sure if he’s lying because he doesn’t quite feel anything right now. “Just tell me what you took.”

Akira does. Somehow manages the scientific name, which Goro doesn’t recognize of course. It might have been on purpose. Maybe Akira doesn’t want him to know exactly which street drug substitutes for truth serum, or why the fuck he’d inject weird shit into his body in the first place, or how there was only one neat pinprick in his elbow, like he’d done it before…

No. No. No. Take care of Akira. Akira first. Goro second, last, never.

With one arm around Akira, Goro awkward digs out his phone and looks up the chemical. Assuming Akira dosed himself safely, in the right place, in the right amounts, it should fade from him with little difficulty. But he’ll need to keep a closer eye on him tonight. A doctor would ask too many questions, and the train back to Yongen to his sketchy friend would be too long to bother, if things were serious.

Goro tucks one arm under his head and another under his knees, bridal-carrying him to the bed in the back of the room. Gently lays him on the cover, awkwardly pulling sheets around him as he’s lying on them. But Akira doesn’t seem to mind. He nestles deeply into the bed, keep one hand firmly latched in Goro’s, who strokes soothing circles in the back of his hand and tells him about New Year’s festivals he attended with his mom when he was a child. The few positive memories he has of Christmas. One-sidedly discusses New Year’s plans – where they should go, who they should see. Akira occasionally warbles something unintelligible and sleepy, and Goro always agrees.

Akira’s little noises grow quieter and dimmer until they vanish like smoke into deep, rhythmic breathing. Goro slowly frees his hand from Akira’s grip and quietly returns the room to its pristine state: pictures back on the walls, furniture returned to proper positions. Wiping and sterilizing the table. Carefully pushing the bed back into place. When Akira wakes up, he’ll be in a hotel room, not the place of Goro’s nightmares. And maybe Akira’s nightmares now, too. If they weren’t already.

Fuck. Fucking fucky fuck. Goro can’t forgive himself for letting things get too far, but he’s also furious at Akira for pushing him that hard. And to lie about the drugs, even at the last minute, after he knew he was caught, unsettles his stomach. Akira must not trust him. Must think him such a heartless asshole, didn’t think Goro would mind such a rough game. Even though Goro tried to change for him, tried to be better, tried to be a human… but maybe that wasn’t enough. Maybe that would never be enough. After all, Akira had no reason to forgive him, then or now. Maybe the killer is all he’d ever be.

If he were a stronger person, he would leave right now. Akira could do without him; he was always strong. One simple, short note, and he could vanish yet again, just like he did when Maruki’s Palace collapsed. It would be easy to do it again. Easy… technically speaking, anyway. If Goro walks away now, it would be the final lock sealing his heart away, never to emerge for any soul, ever again.

But Goro’s weak. Weak for Akira, for this life they have been building. Weak for the smiles, the routines, the acceptance. And Akira… he _needs_ him. Or maybe Goro just needs him to need him.

Whatever survives through this night – compassion, trust, love – Goro needs Akira’s breaths to stay calm and steady through the night. It’s not a problem. He’s pulled all-nighters before. Anything could happen to Goro, and the world would be a better place for it. But Akira… Akira _has_ to be okay. Even if that means Goro’s no longer in the picture. He’s sure Akira would do better without an assassin bogging him down.

And yet, not tonight. Because Goro is a coward, a cowardly fool in love, entranced by the curl of his eyelash, the frizz of his hair, and the slightly-parted lips. He gives them one delicate, sorrowful kiss, and makes a vow. “Never again will I hurt you, Akira,” he whispers. “I’ll stay with you as long as you need me. I’ll take care of you. And when you don’t need me anymore… I won’t burden you anymore. One day you’ll wake up, and I’ll be gone. Like a bad dream. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry...”

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know what top drop is, check out [this](https://twitter.com/heyitshex/status/1349404684302352392?s=20) tweet from a good friend of mine who explains it. Remember that tops/doms might need aftercare, too, not just bottoms/subs.


End file.
